


On Ice, Off Ice

by redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Boys Kissing, Canada, Canadalock, Gay Bashing, Hate Speech, Homophobia, M/M, Rough Kissing, Sports, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s a former major junior player; Sherlock is a figure skater that has just started playing hockey. They’ve already started a relationship, and it’s been causing them some problems.</p>
<p>Trigger warnings: some hate speech, and a punch thrown because a character is gay. Also, for the first part of this relationship, Sherlock is 17. This makes him over the age of consent in Canada, and since John is not much older (19), I didn't tick the "Underage" box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Ice, Off Ice

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt from an as-yet-unnamed (and as yet uncompleted) Teenlock hockey AU, so eventually, I hope, I'll write them meeting, getting together, etc etc. I got the idea for a hockey AU from anotherwellkeptsecret's beautiful fanart (http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/69193531107/figure-skating-sherlock-and-hockey-player-john-in) but this little bit was inspired by Voodooling's picture of John and Sherlock on the bench together (http://voodooling.tumblr.com/post/74541613921/25-days-left-of-our-canada-sherlockd-con).
> 
> Also, thanks to anneincolor for the team name.

 

“We’re playing against the Chinook next game,” Lestrade announced. There were generalized groans throughout the locker room.

 

“Those idiots.”

 

“They never get the penalties they deserve.”

 

“Their center always elbows me in the neck and the refs never see it.” This from Anderson.

 

John slumped back against the wall. More harassment. They never let up on Sherlock, not ever, and he just couldn’t get any more penalties. Last game, he’d been given a major penalty for punching their assistant captain, Robertson, because he’d called Sherlock a ‘faggot figure skater’ and said John sucked his dick.

 

Well, John thought, it was true.

 

It didn’t mean, though, that he wanted to let them get away with being homophobic assholes on the ice. He needed, desperately, to find a better way to deal with that trash talk before he got either benched or ejected from the game altogether.

 

“John! JOHN!” Sherlock was looking at him with an intent expression. He’d just come out of the shower and looked unreasonably beautiful, hair wet and curling, long pale body covered only by a towel. John’s breath caught, and then he had to look away.

 

As he ducked his head, he saw Sherlock grin.

 

“Don’t be difficult on purpose, Sherlock.” _I know what you’re trying to do._

 

“Nothing like a good shower, is there, John?” _But I want to see._

 

“I have homework to do.” _I’ve had quite enough erections in the locker room in the last four months, thank you very much._

 

“Too bad. Will you be home later?” _Fine, fine, keep it private. I know._

 

“Of course.” _I do want you. I do love you._

 

It was worth it. It had to be.

 

___________

“The Chinooks don’t pass, they play dirty, and they are coached by cretins. They are a hot mess of testosterone and poor sportsmanship. If you don’t beat them, because you can beat them, you will be spending the next three practices skating your arses off.” 

“Yes, Coach Hudson,” the team chorused.

“That’s precious little enthusiasm. Sally, you have to pass to Sherlock. Sherlock, I forbid you to say one nasty thing to your line mates during this game. Anderson, for God’s sake stay in your goal, and John…” the coach fixed him with a stare, “if you get one single penalty because you can’t cope with Robertson’s flapping lips, you will be cleaning the locker room, on your knees, with a toothbrush, for the rest of the season. Now, let’s have some enthusiasm!”

Lestrade stood up.

“Okay, let’s do it. Wasps!”  
“Go”  
“Wasps!”  
“Go!”  
“Wasps!”  
“Go go go!”

The first period started badly. The Chinook scored in the first minute, their captain beating Dimmock to the goal and flipping the puck up over Anderson’s right shoulder. Then, their largest defenseman tripped Sherlock on a breakaway, sneakily enough that it wasn’t called. Sally, furious, cross-checked him and got a penalty herself, which meant a second goal for the Chinook on the power play. 

John lined up for the second face-off in despair. He could see Robertson looking at him, could see his lips moving, and knew that he had to do something, anything, to stay away. He breathed in, collected himself, and focused on the center of the ice.

The puck dropped and Bill Wiggins got it. He passed to Mike Stamford, who, predictably, missed it, and it went to the other team. John skated up to the center line, watching; their right winger came barreling down the ice, past Wiggins and Stamford, and right towards Killian Hudson. John went back into his zone, one eye on the puck, one eye on Robertson, who was trying to get in place in front of the goal. 

The Chinook center flipped the puck back towards Robertson. John hesitated for a millisecond, then skated right at him, stick outstretched, trying to lift his stick and get the puck away without getting close enough to hear anything vile. Robertson kept his stick down, though, and John had to move closer, use his body to get him away from the puck. He bent his knees and jammed his shoulder into Robertson’s chest, flicked the puck away. Anderson got it under his mitt and the referee blew the whistle. 

“Faggot.” The whisper was oily, rough, just before Robertson skated away.

John skated back to the bench, angry with himself for leaving it.

“Ignore him,” Sherlock said. His shoulders were hunched, though. 

“Sherlock, I have to shut him up.”

“There’s only one way, and I am not helping you clean the changeroom.”

John looked at him. 

“I’ll get it done.”

John’s next shift, mercifully, did not intersect with Robertson’s, but Sherlock’s did. They weren’t on the same wing, but at one point Robertson managed to pin Sherlock into the boards. From the bench, John could see him talking, see Sherlock’s elbow fly out, but then the whistle blew and John had to take his position for the face-off again, this time in the Chinook’s zone.

Robertson got the puck right out of the face-off. Sebastian went for it, but Robertson passed it up along the boards. John, at the blue line, caught it just before it went out and looked up to see who was free- nobody. He lifted his stick and feinted, then shot. 

It went in, bouncing off the goalie’s helmet with a satisfying clang. John just had time to register the goal when Robertson crashed into him. 

“Weak. But I suppose you’ll still get a celebration blowjob from that figure skating boyfriend of yours.”

John looked at him, fists clenching. 

“Yes.”

Robertson stiffened. John pressed his point.

“Yes, and you know what? It’s going to be fucking glorious.”

He didn’t see Robertson’s fist coming, and when it did, John went down like a stone.

As he lay there on the ice, though, he started grinning. Stupid asshole. A penalty for the Chinook meant opportunity for the Wasps.

Robertson was pulled away by the ref, swearing, and sent to the penalty box. John got up and headed to the bench to high-five his teammates. 

“You okay?” Lestrade was smiling too, though. 

“I’m good.” And he was. 

“You want me to take the next shift?”

“I don’t. Sherlock and I have work to do.” 

As they lined up, Sherlock looked back at him. He nodded, barely.

The next period was a flurry of goals; John feeding Sherlock the puck and Sherlock slipping through the Chinook defense to score. Robertson stayed well away from both of them. 

When the buzzer rang at the end of the third period, the score was 6-2. Jubilant, the Wasps poured off the bench and, tossing helmets and gloves, piled on to Anderson. For once, he didn’t complain about everyone squashing him into the ice. 

John was fizzing with adrenaline. He wasn’t sure why he’d outed them to Robertson, or whether there would be consequences beyond Robertson refusing to even tap his hand in the post-game congratulations. He just knew he’d said something true, and that he’d helped his team win. 

As they trooped back to the locker room, Sherlock caught him by the arm.

“What did you do, John?”

“Nothing. Nothing, Sherlock.” The other boy assessed him, eyes clear and beautiful and perceptive. 

“You’re lying.” 

“I am. Come here and I’ll tell you.” John pulled him into the little equipment closet under the bleachers. Sherlock closed the door.

As Sherlock turned to face him, John dropped his helmet. Sherlock smelled like sweat and laundry detergent, with an underlying whiff of expensive cologne. In this small space, it was overwhelming, and though John had only intended to tell him what had happened, he grabbed the front of Sherlock’s jersey and pulled him down into a kiss. Sherlock made the tiniest noise of surprise, but leaped into it, their tongues slick and hot. 

John, suddenly frantic with desire, pushed Sherlock into the wall with all his weight. He took and took, ignoring the uncomfortable pressure of his erection inside his equipment. Sherlock was quickly coming apart, and John felt the surge of power through his whole body. He sucked Sherlock’s lower lip into his mouth, biting it gently, then kissed Sherlock again, hard. 

“Oh.” Sherlock arched towards him and John reached up and grabbed the nape of his neck. He felt Sherlock collapse forward into his mouth, and he grinned, then slowed his kisses until Sherlock’s breathing calmed. 

“You okay?” he asked breathlessly.

“Why did you stop?” Sherlock’s voice was shaky, with an edge of petulance.

“I can’t do much more when we’re wearing all this equipment.”

“Damn the equipment!”  
“Exactly. Look, I told Robertson about us, sort of. I don’t know if he’ll believe it.”

Sherlock was usually too dignified to goggle, but this time he did goggle. 

“You did what?”

“He asked if I would get a blowjob because of the goal I scored. I told him yes.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“Oh, I hope not. But is that okay? I couldn’t think of what else to do.”

“He probably won’t believe it.”

“I don’t know. He punched me.”

“He’s a cretin.”  
“Cretins can do a lot of damage.”

“They can. But we’re smarter.” Sherlock smiled, and John felt suddenly better.

“All right, then.”

“All right.”

**Author's Note:**

> At this point in the story, John is 19 and Sherlock is 17 and they are on a Junior A team somewhere in Canada. Normally, it would be incredibly improbable that someone starting hockey at 17 would be in any kind of elite team (a lot of kids start at 4, just to give you an idea). Sherlock is just that special. However, it’s not without precedent; Jeff Skinner, who currently plays for the Carolina Hurricanes, started playing at 16. Really, the main unrealistic thing about this AU is that women are on the same team as men. Normally, women play in women-only teams at or after Bantam (13-14), but in this magical universe, they play junior with the boys.


End file.
